


Coronation

by ChampagneSly



Series: Top Ten [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trondheim, 1906: After years of separation following the Treaty of Kiel, Denmark attends the coronation of Norway's new king and discover what time had changed between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He waited until he could no longer hear the thump-thump of Sweden's heavy footsteps on his lovely hardwood floors before unabashadly nuzzling his face into Norway's stomach and murmuring, “Is he gone yet?”

He winced when the hand that had been resting lightly on top of his hair tugged at the messy strands, adding insult to the on-going injury of his hangover.

“Yes, he and the brat have left the building. So you can stop pretending to be asleep now.”

Denmark smiled into his soft fleshy pillow that smelled like detergent and Norge's soap, rubbing his nose into Norway's side to make him squirm as he defended himself, “Hey, I didn't want to interrupt your little lecture. God knows that poor bastard needs all the help we can give him.”

Norway said nothing, only shifting away from the ticklish touch with an irritable huff. Amused by the unexpected docility, Denmark decided to go for broke, sliding his fingers up under the hem of Norway's shirt to tease at the skin of his lower back, totally willing to try and delay his massive hangover as long as possible if a little morning tumble on the couch or the floor or anywhere that suited his prickly darling was on offer.

His hopes were sadly dashed when Norway yawned and lurched away from his wandering hands, depriving him of his resting place as he  stood up from the couch and gave him an unimpressed glare.

“I'm going back to bed. If you want to join me, you'll brush your teeth first. You smell worse than England after a football match,” Norway commanded him imperiously as he stalked away.

Denmark chuckled and struggled up from his sofa prison, biting back the urge to remind Norway that it wasn't really good form to dictate how he could and could not come to his own bed, figuring that if the impressive quantity of empties currently littering his living room was anything to go by his breath probably did reek.

Besides, if he couldn't get laid, having a warm body next to him in his indulgently massive bed while he slept off the after-affects of performing his big brotherly duties was pretty awesome consolation.

So he did as Norway asked, managing to stay upright long enough to piss and brush the moonshine fumes off of his tongue, before stumbling into his bedroom, where Norway was drawing the curtains. He leaned against the door to watch as his little lover shed the clothes he'd probably only put on hours ago in the darkness of his Oslo home, peeling away the layers  until he was standing in only his underwear and staring at Denmark with that all too familiar impatient and exasperated expression that seemed to question Denmark's sanity.

“Well? Are you just going to stand there and ogle me?” Norway asked flatly before shivering a little and shuffling under the covers, apparently no longer interested in giving Denmark a free show.

"Yup, that's exactly what I'm gonna do," Denmark answered cheerfully even as he started stalking towards the bed and Norway's frowning face.

Now that Norge's lovely skin had gone hiding under the sheets, Denmark rediscovered his motivation to shed his own clothes, using the last vestiges of his energy to launch himself into the bed, ignoring his bedmate's annoyed growl as the mattress bounced from the force of his enthusiastic landing. He settled back on the pillow, wondering why the fuck he had ever thought it was a good idea to sleep on his good looking but deeply uncomfortable couch, folding his arms behind his head and sighing in happy satisfaction.

He soon wished he had saved that sigh of pleasure when his morning was made infinitely better by the unexpected, but very _very_ welcome, feel of Norway settling his head in the crook of his shoulder and twining their legs together, inflicting the icy coldness of his toes on Denmark's calves. Gently, wary of startling the wild Norway into retreat to his own side of the bed, Denmark wrapped an arm around his slightly shaking shoulders, pulling him closer. His eyebrows rose in tandem expressions of surprise when he felt a pleased hum against his throat.

As Norway's eyelashes brushed over his skin with every flutter of his sleepy eyes and his breath fanned out warm and dry across his chest, Denmark felt as though he was floating on a sea of happy disbelief, wondering exactly what had gotten into Norge this morning.

Incapable of keeping 99% of his thoughts to himself, Denmark broke the stillness of the moment, murmuring, “Not that I'm complaining, and not that I think you'll tell me, but whatever it is that's gotten into you this morning, I like it!”

He felt the amused exhale of Norway's quiet laughter rush over him and he couldn't resist pressing a kiss the to strands of blond hair that were currently trying to fly up his nose. Norway wriggled against him, a delicious slide of skin on skin as he continued to sap away Denmark's radiating warmth.

“Cold, tired.” Norway informed him abruptly, digging his toes into Denmark's calves as if to remind him of the frigidity of his lower extremities.

He yelped a little in response before laughing quietly and folding those cold toes between his ankles and asking, “Tired, huh? You didn't have to give nationship advice 101 to the great brooding lion of the north all night!”

Norway snorted, answering with half the acidity of his normal retorts, yawning widely as he said, “No, idiot, I only had to endure hours of Sealand's unwavering enthusiasm for my boats. Worse than you, which I didn't think was possible.”

“Someone loves your boats more than I do? I think I'm jealous,” Denmark teased cheerfully, taking pleasure in watching the tiny rise in Norway's eyebrows that gave away his amusement.

He did not take as much pleasure in the subsequent pinch that was delivered to his stomach as Norway drily informed him, “There was also the problem of this Danish moron waking me up at 2:30 in the morning whining about last Thursday and _reenactments of fucking so good it ought to be included in all the annals of the world._ ”

Denmark laughed heartily (impressed his apparently very good vocabulary when wasted) until Norway smacked him across the chest, uninterested in a pillow that moved quite so much. Denmark stilled and stroked his hand down his bedmate's side, wanting to soothe and placate him into staying exactly where he belonged, warm and naked and soft against his body.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, trying to hide his smile in the nest of Norway's hair, “don't really remember that part of the evening.”

“No, I imagine not,” Norway returned drolly before sighing deeply and once again going lax and pliant, only to be startled into tense awareness seconds later when Denmark was struck by a flash of memory from his slideshow night*, his pulse quickening in unconscious response to the heated memories that started flickering in his mind.

“Oh! I remember now...I was telling Sweden about _that_ time in 1906, you know which one I'm talking about and even though the bastard said he didn't want to hear about it, I started to  miss you.”

“Don't you have any sense of propriety?” Norway asked with lazy, yawning disdain as he mouthed along the side of Denmark's jaw, tiredly nipping at his skin in what Denmark liked to think of as love bites from his vicious little beast.

He let his hand slide down to rest in the dip of Norway's waist, fingers tracing random patterns over his hip bones, as he faux-whispered, “Says the man who had crazy hot sex with me in Sweden's yard.”

He waited quietly for the inevitable retaliation, the always delicious rising of Norway to the dangling of his bait, only to have his heart melt and his arousal simmer when he noticed that he was no longer being treated to a blue eyed glare and that the lips that had so recently been inflicting revenge on his neck were now parted in the softness of sleep.

Though it still wasn't sweaty, panting, naked time, Denmark exhaled happily, sliding down to press his nose against the warmth of Norway's cheek, settling them both comfortably on his pillow, taking great care not to rouse the resting beast.

“Hey, even though its technically morning, how about I tell you a bedtime story, Norge,” he breathed out as the body tangled with his shifted impossibly closer, apparently more honest with its affections in sleep than in waking.

Letting his own eyes fall closed, Denmark murmured, “I promise you its good. One of my favorites...”

And as the winter sun tried to break through the heavy drape of the curtains, an uninvited intruder on this  fragile moment, Denmark started to remember, his voice rumbling low and laced with contented arousal as he spun out his tale over the sound of Norway's quiet, steady breathing.

 _“I remember it like I remember how it felt the first time my feet touched down on English soil or day that I was forced to sign you away...June, 1906. Sitting stiff as a fucking board in the pews of Nidaros, hoping that I didn't wrinkle the fancy uniform Greenland had worked so hard to press for me so I wouldn't look like shit on your big day._

I hadn't seen you in so fucking long, I thought I might have been hallucinating when I finally laid eyes on you again, all dressed up in your proudest military get-up, buttons so shiny I could see the reflection of Sweden's stupid sour face, as you stood next to your new king...looking so fucking gorgeous I thought I would go crazy if you didn't acknowledge that I was there, ready to burn the church to the ground to get you to look at me...”


	2. Chapter 2

It was warm in the cathedral and Denmark tried his damnedest not to shift and squirm as the sweat dripped down the back of his finest military jacket, replete with metals and regalia, all donned in honor and celebration of the coronation of King Haakon VII; the chosen monarch for the rebirth of independent Norway, gifted his crown by the popular approbation of his new people. Nidaros was crammed to the rafters with all of Europe’s regal glitterati, a shining sea of silk and lace and finery gathered together under this blessed roof in Trondheim to observe the solemn celebration of the Coronation Act.

There were gilded ladies and shimmering jewels, banners on balustrades, all a feast for the eyes on that June afternoon, but as he stood on the worn stone floor of Nidaros, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d last set foot in these hallowed halls, Denmark had his sights set solely on one lone figure out of the mass of dilettantes and dignitaries; all his eager hopes and anxious wishes pinned on Norway’s unmistakable back, as familiar to him as the contours of his own lands even after so many years of separation.

All through the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony, as what was once a prince of his became the king of another nation, Denmark craned his neck and tried to peer around the hats and foppery of the hoards of admirers wanting to know if Norway was looking back. For all the long hours it took to place the trappings of royalty on first the shoulders and the head of Haakon and then his lovely Queen Maud, he had gone unsatisfied in his desire to once again be the object of Norway’s inscrutable gaze, having to make do with admiring the lithe lines of his legs and the way his fair hair had grown longer in the years they were apart, curling delicately over the starched collar of his jacket.

No matter how hard he stared or how brightly he smiled, trying to use the sheer power of his not insubstantial will to compel him to turn around and meet his eyes, Norway remained as resolutely stubborn as ever when it came to granting any wish of Denmark’s. As the ceremony dragged on without even so much as a tiny nod of acknowledgment, no infinitesimal softening of the rigidity in the set of his shoulders to betray any other emotion other than solemn concentration, Denmark’s cheer began to flag as he wondered if Norge even wanted him there, dressed up and sweating in his church.

The little whispers of doubt that had nagged him since 1814, compounded by the weary anxiety that had hung around his neck since the horrible days of 1864, chipped away at his boundless good mood; worn down by an insidious voice insisting that Norway, resplendent in his independence, would no longer have any use for a diminished and defeated conqueror who once upon a time might have been good for a laugh or a lay.

As the ethereal sound of the final hymn began to resonate throughout the arches and vaults of the nave, solemnity giving way to joy and celebration, Denmark shook his head and dug up his widest and most brilliant grin, uninterested in falling prey to the shadow of doubt when Norway was almost close enough to tough. As the applause began to thunder through the hall, the Bishop of Trondheim proudly presenting King Haakon and Queen Maud, Denmark took comfort in the fact that in a tersely worded letter (nothing at all like the love notes he’d always known Norge would never send), Norway had specifically demanded his presence on this momentous occasion.

Continuing to stare unabated at Norway’s still turned back, even as the King and Queen began to make their processional from the high altar, Denmark could only hope that he hadn't been invited here to witness the renaissance of someone he would never be allowed to hold again.

(He wouldn't have put such a gesture beyond the reach of Norway's cold machinations, choosing instead to trust in the affection he was so sure the other man had felt for him at one time to protect him from such vicious treatment.)

He broke his endless staring for a brief moment to glare at the profile of the only other man who could claim to be another Norwegian cast-off, wondering if perhaps Norway had summoned him to the church to stand next to Sweden and share in the misery of knowing that he never wanted to belong to either of them.

His resolve began to falter, to teeter with each slow step of the King and Queen towards the great portal doors, the departing soft swish-swish of Maud’s train on the hewn stone echoing loudly in his ears as still Norway would not turn to him.

 _“Look at me, you gorgeous bastard, look at me before I cause a fucking scene!”_ He wanted to shout, the itch to cause a disruption and demand Norway’s attention as he’d done so many times in the past creeping up his throat as beaded sweat continued to run slick down his back.

The clanging of the bells and the growing press of the crowd and the oppression of the warm air had Denmark only seconds away from giving into the temptation to dig through the many pockets of his military jacket, certain that Greenland couldn't have been so thorough as to remove all his matches. He would do it, oh yes, he would set the pew aflame just have Norway's eyes snap at him with disappointed anger.

Anything to be rid of the turned back of deliberate disinterest.

His inching fingers and his fevered thoughts were frozen under the sudden, wondrous, _so fucking missed_ , frigid blue tundra of Norway's piercing gaze, pinning him in place, tethering his sanity and answering his longing. Not even daring to raise a hand to rub at the strange ache that was spreading through his chest, Denmark stared back without reservation, as uncaring as ever that doubtless every emotion flooding through his mind was scrawling across his open, smiling, face. He started to shift forward, a thousand words that he wanted to say ready to spill eager and hot from his mouth, when the corners of Norway's lips defrosted enough to curve upwards in a smirk somehow soft and unknowable.

 _A new smile from this new Norway._

Just as abruptly as the much wanted pleasure of being returned to the center of Norway's attention had been bestowed, it was taken away, as the other man broke their silent conversation by turning his back once again and slipping away from the flow of the excited crowd.

Disappointed, but never daunted, Denmark let himself be carried on the surge of the revelers just long enough to break free and turn swiftly to pursue his wayward love, always as slippery as an eel, believing with all his heart that Norway's eyes had been telling him:

 _Come to me. Now, you must come to me._

Dress shoes clipping decisively along the echoing passageways of the church, Denmark smiled and loosened the collar of his shirt, attempting to ignore the irrational nerves flitting in his stomach, the doubt that still lingered in the corners of his mind, the fear that this Norway that looked at him with mysterious feelings in his eyes would turn him away.

As he walked further into the depths of the church, the happy burbling of crowd faded into the distance, and he had to rely solely on the natural afternoon light spilling in through the windows to guide his steps, as there were none of the new electric blubs to illuminate these more ancient and forgotten parts of the church. He was transported to the days so very long ago when Norway had crowned his last king before he'd been made to take Denmark's rulers as his own. Still wandering, searching, Denmark let his fingers run idly over the smooth stone of one of the great pillars that soared towards the vaulted ceilings, appreciating the beauty of a place that could be nearly burnt to the ground four times and yet still remain standing, resolute and inextinguishable.

He skidded to a halt and tried to overcome the feeling of his heart suddenly lodged in his throat, choking him with its excited, anxious beating, as he stumbled upon his lost Norway, waiting under the scattered light of a stained glass window of Moses leading his people out of Egypt. Denmark swallowed and moved into the tiny alcove, leaning against the pillar as he took a long, uninterrupted moment to gaze with undisguised admiration at the way the colors of the glass played across the pale strands of Norway's hair; finding himself irrevocably drawn to the easy confidence emanating from his eyes, the way he held himself so still and sure, a perfect counterpoint to Denmark's restless energy.

Silence reigned as they watched each other from across the shadowed and narrow room, Denmark standing just outside the reach of the sunlight spilling across the stone floor, stretching out the many years of quietude that had passed between them.

Denmark's skin prickled with arousal, his fingers already yearning to reacquaint themselves with the slopes and planes of Norway's body, even as his mind cautioned his blood that this Norway that stood waiting, patient and silent, was not one to which he could lay claim.

But he had to start somewhere, and he'd spent enough time suffering through countless courts to know that when in doubt, it never hurt to fall back on social niceties...even such as his were.

“Congratulations, Norge,” Denmark offered with a wide, genuine smile, pushing forward from his resting place against the wall to take one small step closer. Norway blinked slowly and said nothing, merely continuing to hold Denmark within his mysterious gaze.

The slap of his shoes on the flagstone echoed in his ears almost as loudly as the unexpected pounding of his heart as he continued to shift forward, coming ever closer to the man who stood so calmly, expression giving nothing away, as serene and placid as still waters, practically begging Denmark to dive in and see if his feelings still ran deep.

With hands in pockets, hiding his treacherous needy fingers, Denmark drew close enough to finally see the healthy flush of Norway's cheeks, his breath catching a little when it dawned on him that what he could not read before in Norway's stare was contentment, simmering just under the surface, given away by the tiny creases of pleasure in the corners of his eyes.

Desperately, wildly, Denmark wanted to taste that happiness, to touch his lips to these strange and wonderful marks of satisfaction that betrayed all of Norway's so carefully guarded secrets.

Instead he cleared his throat and grinned, rocking forward to lean into Norway's space as he said, “Nice of you to pick one of mine to be your king.”

A shadow of a smirk graced Norway's face, his voice low and gently mocking as he finally spoke, “Sweden could also make a claim.”

“Feh, he's way more mine than he'll ever be that asshole's,” Denmark spat with a scowl, baring his teeth as Norway just continued to look up at him with vague amusement.

“Regardless, now he is mine,” he said with quiet pride, “and I think he shall do very nicely.”

“Even though he's a product of Prussia's whipping boy?” Denmark asked, voice unusually self-deprecating as he cast his eyes away, unable to keep from wanting Norway's assurance that no matter how diminished his territories, how defeated his armies, he was still welcome by his side.

He held still, steadfast smile wavering as Norway crept forward, raising his hands to hover at the side of his face, but not touching, so near  that he could feel the chill of his skin, trying not to squirm under the bemused scrutiny of his critical gaze.

“Self-pity does not suit you,” Norway whispered mockingly into his ear, warm breath tickling at the damp hairs clinging to his neck, creeping under his collar to heat him further as Norway spoke on, “begging for my favor suits you even less.”

Denmark's eyes fell shut as Norway's hands finally came to rest on either side of his jaw, thumbs tracing lightly under his eyes as if to erase the deep circles of worry that had gathered there in the many decades since Schleswig, a gentle antidote to the harshness of his words.

He leaned forward into the touch, wanting Norway to feel the curve of his smile against his cool palm as he opened his eyes and stared with unguarded admiration.

“You...independence suits you very well, Norge,” He murmured, words laced with lust and affection as he inched nearer and nearer, needing to close the last remaining space between them, watching the answering spark of lust light in Norway's eyes.

“Of course it does. I always knew it would.” Norway answered as his hands slid from Denmark's face to circle his neck, fingers cupping his jaw, tilting it down so far that he could feel the slow exhale of Norway's words.

At last, Denmark freed his hands from their pocket prison, giving them free reign to rest on the sharp ridge of Norway's hips, wishing that they were anywhere but here so there could be no clothes between them to impede the burn of skin on skin.

“Sorry it took me so long to figure it out,” he said softly, grip flexing as Norway hummed under his breath and sighed, gaze going heavy and hot.

“Idiot.”

That word sounded as close to an invitation as Denmark ever thought he would get from such a hidden man as Norway and so he let his lips part and his head shift downwards, ready to make a long and thorough re-acquaintance with Norway's kiss, only to be stopped by a sudden pressure on his neck.

Halting his progress, he favored Norway with a pained downward pout  until he felt the touch of Norway's forehead to his. He stilled and he strained to understand the words that were being whispered in his ear.

“Tell me, Denmark, how long has it been since you touched me?” Norway asked and Denmark struggled to think clearly while fingers traced random patterns over his throat and warm breath spilled across his lips.

“Too fucking long,” he murmured, tightening his hold on Norway's waist, trying to meld their bodies together.

“Tell me.”

Denmark huffed and tried to cast his memories back, finally alighting on a cold night in Christiania, remembering the depths of his jealousy, the taste of his desperation.

“Must have been that time in 1814. After Kiel.”

Norway's forehead slid along his as he shook his head and murmured, “Wrong.”

“Nah, I think I would remember if I'd gotten my hands on you since then,” Denmark insisted, hoping that Norway wouldn't withhold his too-long gone affections until he stumbled upon whatever the other man believed the right answer to be.

Norway pulled away, putting just enough distance between them to capture his full attention, eyes as serious and alive as Denmark had ever seen.

It was fucking breathtaking.

“It has been more days than you could dare to recall since you've last touched me and me alone. Since all the blood and bone in my body have belonged solely to me, since all the lakes and lands that map who I am have not had to endure the claim of another. It has been many years since I have touched someone with my own two hands.”

Denmark stared, transfixed as Norway spoke in a voice so low and fervent that he felt as though he was being handed the answers to one of the mysteries of Norway's heart, humbled and aroused by the quiet passion of the words that flowed along the walls of the church.

He moved one of his hands to rest over his chest, letting the lustful grin slide from his face to be replaced by a solemn smile, his voice thick and rough with emotion as he answered:

“I'm honored, then, to be your first after such a long time.”

“As you should be,” Norway said softly as he licked his lips and shifter closer once again.

Denmark sighed contentedly, even as his pulse quickened in anticipation, a thousand unruly butterflies moving in his stomach, closing his eyes and letting Norway guide their bodies slowly together until he felt the first, fleeting press of lips against his own.

And then Norway pulled him near, kissing him in earnest, lips parting hot and sweet under Denmark's as sinfully delicious as ever before...

But this time, as he gave himself over to the demand in Norway's touch, the silent command that he submit and let himself be kissed, this kiss was wholly new and wholly profound.

For this time, as Norway's mouth moved resolutely over his, all warmth and softness, there was no bitterness in the touch, the hint of frustrated rage that had always been in the nips of his teeth and the slide of his tongue was gone, leaving only unreserved, unrestrained wanton, wanting.

For the first time, Norway was kissing him the way Denmark had always kissed him in all their many torrid and tawdry years together.

 _As though they were equals._

And Denmark understood, all of the pieces that he'd felt so long scattered within him coming back together with each moment they were locked in this lover's embrace.

When Norway pulled away, leaving Denmark to breathe deeply and immediately wish for more, _(always for more)_ , he smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to Norway's cheek, whispering:

“Kongeriket Norge.”

He felt the shiver roll up Norway's spine, enchanted by the unbelievably sexy sigh of satisfaction that passed through his lips before he heard Norway's returned endearment, as sweet as any other named he'd ever been called:

“Kongeriget Danmark.”

As soon as the words had reached his ears, his arms were full of Norway's arching and greedy body, twining around him like a snake on its prey. Denmark spread his feet to steady himself in the wake of Norway's sudden onslaught, wrapping his arms firmly around his waist and giving himself over to the demanding violence of Norway's embrace.

He welcomed the sharp pricks of teeth pulling on his bottom lip as Norway slid away from a kiss so filthy Denmark was surprised the church didn't go up in flames for a 5th time. He laughed joyously as Norway sucked a possessive mark into the few patches of skin that were actually visible beneath the tight starch of his collar, knowing that when he had to go back home he would be able to carry this reminder of his little love's vicious need for him for several days, mottled and purple and wonderful.

He paused only when he felt his hand being tugged downwards even as he moaned involuntarily when Norway commanded, mouth dirty and hot and wet against his ear:

“Touch me.”

Denmark rubbed the heel of his palm over the rough fabric covering Norway's cock, surprised to find him so hard and ready, encouraged by the steady rocking of Norway's hips into his hand. He stilled as the church bells chimed again, reminding him of exactly where they were.

On any other day he wouldn't given two shits about sacrilege and propriety, but this was the first day of Norway's new life, and the last thing he wanted was to be the cause of the king's mysterious right hand man being caught in flagrante with a derelict Dane in the Nidaros Cathedral.

“Here? Are you sure?” He asked as he removed his hand from Norway's crotch, splaying his fingers across the planes of his hips and nuzzling into his neck.

Norway let out a harsh laugh, “Odin...the Papists...Lutheranism....we've lived to see enough gods come and go. This one we have now will just have to forgive me.”

 _Well_ , Denmark thought, _there's no arguing with that._

He quickly cast his eyes furtively around the alcove  before tightening his hold on Norway's waist and using his grip to back them into a shadowed corner. He kissed him deep and messy until Norway was sighing into his mouth and rocking into his body with abandon.

Pulling away, he treasured the sight of Norway's wet and swollen mouth, lips parted so prettily as he panted. He winked before dropping to his knees, giving a momentary thought to how annoyed Greenland was going to be when he came home with scuffed and wrinkled pants.

 _Totally worth it!_

“Your majesty,” he teased happily as he made quick work of Norway's belt and buttons, undoing the breeches just enough to let his cock out, hard and proud and wanting.

Denmark paused as he felt the slide of Norway's fingers against the curve of his face, touch gentle and almost sweet, his eye catching on the glint of metal. He lifted the hand from his face, bringing it forward to admire the elegant ring that bore the crest of the Norwegian monarchy so recently restored.

“I like this one more than that piece of shit Sweden gave you,” Denmark said as his fingers traced the gold band, smiling up into Norway's flushed face.

Denmark opened his mouth as Norway pushed the ringed finger inside, running his tongue along the ring and humming in approval.

“It is the last ring I will ever wear,” Norway declared softly but firmly.

Denmark released the digit, lacing his hand with Norway's and placing them atop his shoulder, grumbling under his breath, “At least on that finger.”

He could practically hear the roll of Norway's eyes and decided that he had better stop the scathing words that were sure to tumble forth by returning to the task he had been assigned.

 _Touching Norge._

Keeping one hand on Norway's waist and the other resting on his shoulder, he took Norway into his mouth, cock hot and heavy on his tongue as he slid past his lips. He was surprised and pleased to find Norway so ready and so eager;  setting a slow steady pace with the firm hand on his waist, taking as much of the rocking of Norway's hips as he could, letting him fill his mouth with each to-and-fro thrust.

He used only his lips and tongue, delighting in relearning the curves and contours of Norway's cock as he memorized the sound of Norway's quiet sighs and sharp sucking breaths as they floated out into the solemn silence of the church in glorious profane perfection.

Denmark smiled and hummed when he felt Norway's hand stroking through his hair, tugging down mercilessly whenever Denmark favored him with a little touch of teeth. Denmark could feel the quivering of Norway;s stomach under the layers of clothes; his palm damp and warm and itching for the moment when he could peel away these ridiculous trappings of dignity and run his hands over every inch of Norway's lovely, delicious skin until the sensation of it was buried so deep under his fingernails he'd never be free of it again.

He closed his eyes and listened to the wanton little hiccups in Norway's breathing as he took him further and further in, still only using the touch of his tongue and movement of his mouth to bring him off, amazed at how fucking into it Norway was, delighted by the thought that perhaps Norway had been waiting just as long as he had to feel this way once more.

 _That maybe he wasn't the only way who missed how it had been between them._

As he felt the hand in his hair begin to tremble, Denmark moved his hand from its hold on Norway's waist, sliding down into the tight confines of his pants to brush along his balls, a teasing touch that had the fingers resting on his shoulder gripping so tight he knew there would be bruises to match the marks on his neck. He twisted his wrist just enough to press the tip of one finger into Norway's ass, a promise of all the things to come, trying not to feel too smug when Norway gasped and bucked and came down his throat.

Denmark removed his hand and opened his arms to catch Norway as he slumped forward, shivering and panting, resting over his bended knees. Denmark wanted to push him down until he could feel how much Denmark wanted him, wanted to take all his pleasures in Norway's lax and giving body.

He pressed little needy kisses alone the slick skin of Norway's neck and cheek, licking up the salty taste of his desire, murmuring as he sought his lips, “God, I want to fuck you. Please, please.”

Norway shuddered as they kissed, dirty and wet and wanting until Denmark was just as breathless, sitting tangled together on the unforgiving stone floor.

Norway pushed his hands into Denmark's hair and pulled away shaking his head, “I have a banquet to attend.”

Denmark groaned and dropped his head onto Norway's shoulder, laughing a little as he tried to reign in his out of control lust, trying even harder to remember that this was Norge's big day and that he would just have to wait his turn.

He pushed his luck, asking, “Later?”

Norway huffed, either from annoyance or amusement, _(it was always hard for him to tell)_ , and stood up on still shaky legs, the sight of which provided Denmark with a conciliatory ego boost.

Denmark stood as well, dusting off his knees and the seat of his pants before whipping out a hand to catch Norway's wrist, dragging him back against his chest for a long, slow kiss. He grinned when Norway bit down on his tongue and struggled against his hold, giving him fond memories of days gone by.

It was always good to know that some things never changed.

“Hey,” Denmark whispered gleefully in Norway's ear, “at least let me kiss you in front of Sweden.”

He rubbed his finger over Norway's ring when Norway joined their hands together, his heart jumping when Norway leaned back, eyes warm and tinged with affection, and smirked meaningfully as he answered:

“Better yet, _I_ will kiss _you_ in front of Sweden.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Lies.” Norway mumbled irritatedly into Denmark's shoulder as he squirmed and tried to break free of the grip around his waist.

“Hmm?” Denmark murmured more or less incoherently, neither loosening his grip nor opening his eyes to acknowledge Norway's verbal and physical protestations.

“I would never have said something so ridiculously sentimental,” He insisted tiredly, wishing he had not woken up half way through Denmark's recounting of that reckless encounter in Nidaros Cathedral, never able to tune out any story of one his most glorious days.

Denmark snorted and yawned, “You totally said that and you know it. I thought you were asleep.”

Norway dug his fingers into Denmark's side, snapping, “Who could sleep through your endless rambling, idiot?”

He rued having remained so closely intertwined with his Danish bedmate when his wrist was captured in a strong, insistent grip and his body was unceremoniously pulled from its warm resting spot to tumble over Denmark's lap.

“If you're not gonna sleep, how about you giving me a little re-enactment of what happened next?” Demnark purred, eyebrows waggling suggestively in time with the shimmying of his hips, making his intentions and his desire beyond obvious.

Trying to regain some dignity, Norway pushed off the covers, favored Denmark with an unimpressed glare, and straddled his thighs, holding his body just far enough away to deny Denmark the pressure he so badly wanted on his dick.

“I'm sure I don't recall,” He blissfully lied through his teeth while staring blankly at the wall, willing away the flush that threatened to creep up his neck and spill over his cheeks as his mind flooded with memory.

He gasped and bit down on his lip when Denmark's hands landed firmly on his waist, hot and dry in contrast to the cool air rushing over his skin, and pulled him down to meet the gentle rocking of his hips, each little up-down-motion making him want to close his eyes and rake his nails down the naked vulnerability of the chest beneath him.

“How about this? Does this remind you of anything, Norge?” Denmark asked, smirking obnoxiously as though he clearly believed he was about to get his way, continuing to roll his body into Norway's.

Not particularly inclined to give way so easily, nerves still humming with the memories of the exhilaration of that day in the church, the unparalleled power he had so effortlessly felt in those heady moments following the coronation, he whipped out a hand to rest against Denmark's throat, pressing down just enough to see the spark of heated lust and apprehension light in his eyes.

Tightening his thighs around Denmark's waist, holding him in place, Norway leaned down to lick and bite at the fingers rubbing cruel little circles over the tendons of Denmark's throat, leaving tiny teeth mark indentations, reveling in the feel of Denmark's answering growls under his tongue.

He shifted forward, trailing soft and fleeting kisses up the curve of his neck, gentleness that belied the words he whispered in Denmark's waiting ear in a low mocking caress, “Be careful what vaults of memory you choose to open, idiot. Are you so certain you can handle my truths?”

“I'll always want to take anything you've got to give,” Denmark answered hotly, trying to twist his head under the dangerous grip still resting over his throat to find Norway's lips.

Norway deigned to allow him the briefest touch of his mouth, heart fluttering irrationally from the ease with which this foolish man at his mercy could make such declarations of devotion without fear or reservation.

It wasn't so different from that back then...on that day when he first realized how truly dangerous Denmark was...

“Very well,” he whispered into Denmark's mouth before falling into the kiss and the memory of a day long gone by, but never forgotten.

  
He could feel it in his bones, humming in his blood, echoing joyously in his ears, the endless shouts and exalted cheers of his people; their boundless enthusiasm and happy cries, calling out for their new king filling the small, tight space in the carriage as it made slow progress from Nidaros to the king's boat house. He could feel how his name resonated in their hearts, he could taste the shared pride and wonder of his people in the air, ebullient celebration pushing up from the ground and into those parts of his being he'd long despaired would be dark and silent forever.

King and Country held dear in the souls of his independent people, and he could feel all of it, thick and warm and wonderful flowing in his veins, filling his heart with power and reckless happiness.

It made him feel drunk and out of his mind, the irrepressible excitement and passion of the day welling up and melting his tundra of rationality, leaving only floes of feeling and desire.

On what else could he blame his sudden, irresistible need for Denmark's touch only moments earlier in the hallowed halls of his most holy church? What else could be responsible for the calm assurance he'd felt when he'd looked upon Denmark's familiar face, changed only by the weariness brought on by unexpected defeat, and known that there was no one else with whom he would rather share this indescribable feeling of contentment and completion?

Oh, but he had known it was risky to show so much to Denmark's eager, but never totally oblivious, eyes...to reveal secrets he had long kept only for himself, to let Denmark in so deep...knowing that once Denmark alighted upon something he thought worth keeping, he would never let go, never relinquish the territory he had come to possess without a painful struggle.

But right now, at this very moment, worry and doubt were the furthest things from his mind as he felt the beating of his people's happy heart in his chest and listened to the wanting, filthy whisper of his name in his ear:

 _Norge._

 _Norway._

 _Kongeriket Norge._

The carriage was hot, the air staid and stiff in the afternoon sun, and there was barely room for more than one, but here he was with another, once again entangled in Denmark's arms. His people wanted to love and praise their nation and Denmark wanted to love him, and so Norway allowed it, this desperate, clinging embrace, turning his face up to meet Denmark's seemingly endless need to kiss him breathless.

Without thought, he took and took Denmark's passion for him, giving his body over to the searching of the fingers that moved over his stomach, over his thighs, across his back; hands that pushed and pulled at his clothes, demanding access to his sweat slicked skin, which shivered and shook as it remembered the feel of a lover's touch.

Denmark was rocking into his thigh, pressing his lust into Norway's hip as his mouth begged for promises of future fulfillment, lips murmuring vivid wanton suggestions of what could lie behind the privacy of a door, and for the first time in his very long life, Norway wanted to say yes to each one, to accept each of Denmark's pleading requests, because now....now he could.

 _Of his own free will and want._

Norway moaned and shoved Denmark to tumble backwards on the narrow seat as the carriage rolled along the path, the cheering voices of the crowd wafting through the window's drawn curtain hiding the sound of his pleasure. He scrambled onto Denmark's lap, gladly falling into the arms that parted so readily for him, blood humming with the thrill of being so openly wanted, so damned needed.

He knew that this was madness, this unbridled and reckless taking of Denmark's desire and affection; believing that in a day, in a week, in a month, in whatever moment it was that this ardent flame brought on by the rush of independence cooled and tempered, returning him to normalcy, he would wish that he had never seen the love so obvious in Denmark's eyes, a honeypot trap of temptation that he just knew would one day taste like bonds and obligation.

But right then, rocking obscenely in time with the stilted movements of the carriage, as he opened his mouth to the twining of Denmark's eager tongue, Norway only closed his eyes to the intensity of his lover's stare, choosing instead to roll his still clothed and once again hard cock over Denmark's and swallow his choked moan.

At that moment, hot and tired and being held too tightly, too close, Norway could not bring himself to care about all the implications of these actions, the hidden meanings Denmark would doubtless uncover in the quiet words that he'd spoken in the church; interested only in finding satiation for his burning desire in the greedy touch of Denmark's fingers and the sweet parting of his lips.

He still didn't care as they tumbled from the carriage when it arrived at the servant's entrance to the boat house, hiding them-- _-breathless and smoldering with rumpled clothes and the tell-tale signs of illicit activity littered across what little skin was visible_ \---from the prying eyes of the King's many guests as they ran into the building, hands still reaching for the other.

He ignored all the whispers of doubt and the small frissons of caution that tried to worm their way under his haze of lust when Denmark laughed and swung him around to kiss him fervently against the wall as they climbed the stairs to his chambers.

He refused to pay heed to his better sense even when he was flung bodily across the bed the moment the door was kicked shut by Denmark's foot, closing his eyes and surrendering to the demanding onslaught of hands and fingers finally stripping him bare of the clothes that had denied him proper touch.

He thought of nothing but the feel of Denmark's tongue as it traced dangerously down the length of his spine, mind going blank with searing, white lust as it dipped between his thighs to linger over his most intimate curves, making him incoherent with hot, wet, want.

He cared not for reason or responsibility when Denmark laid across his back and laced their hands together, pressing inside for the first time in so many years that his body arched and writhed with the almost forgotten pleasure-pain of it all, and his heart raced so fast he thought that perhaps his entire nation had caught aflame.

He didn't even mind when Denmark unexpectedly shuddered and shook, making breathless apologies into his ear, pleading for forbearance because it had been so long for him, too, that he could not help but be overwhelmed.

He cared so little, so filled with pride and power and pleasure, that he only nodded his head in acquiescence when Denmark begged for “later” and rolled over to part his legs and let Denmark make him mindless with his mouth once again.

He indulged in continued oblivion, figuring it to be the reward of so many centuries of being beholden, allowing Denmark the privilege of bathing with him, tolerating the wandering of his hands as he dragged the washcloth over his skin.

He wondered if it was possible to truly be kissed within an inch of one's life, fearing for his own continued existence if Denmark's newest obsession with his mouth kept up.

He cared again only they stood together in front of the mirror with Denmark draped over his shoulders, pressing soft kisses along his face as he struggled to put on his evening coat and tie and Denmark breathed into his ear,

“Fuck, you look so hot like this, I wish we could blow off the banquet and just stay here all night. I don't want to share you with anyone.”

The words rushed over him like the ice waters of his northern-most seas, abruptly returning to him all of the caution that had been so recently replaced by careless happiness, reminding him that he had no experience with love and independence.

Norway stilled, watching his expression grow cold and distant in the mirror, even as Denmark continued to nuzzle affectionately into his hair, knowing that what he wanted more than anything, more than he wanted the man wrapped around him, was to protect this nascent feeling of solitary power.

 _To know, without doubt or reservation, that he belonged to no one._

“Share me?” He said bitterly, voice no longer tinged with warmth, pushing out of Denmark's confusing and clinging hold, “That would imply that you had some claim on me.”

He ignored Denmark's surprised little huff of hurt, marching resolutely to the door, intent on doing his rightful duty to his nation and himself, reminding Denmark as he walked out:

“And you do not.”


	4. Chapter 4

As fate, (and social dictum), would have it, Norway was seated next to Denmark for the formal dinner, as the honored guest of both King Haakon and his brother, Danish Crown Prince Christian he was granted first seat next to the nation of the hour. Flushed and warm under his collar, still feeling the imprint of Denmark's fingers on his hips, he was not well pleased to find himself so situated, unable to entirely suppress the traitorous rush of adrenaline coursing through him when Denmark smirked and swept in to sit beside him.

Deliberately, he had looked away from Denmark's heated and wondering stare as he sat down with his easy smile and hair still slightly wet from the bath they had just shared, prickles of unease running up his spine as he thought of how recklessly he had been behaving.

How much he had given away so easily, how surprised he was by his own willingness to be so disarmed by Denmark after their long separation, fueled his sudden anxious desire to ensure that Denmark understood with perfect clarity that he was no longer a shiny bauble to hang on his coat of arms, that he belonged to no other nation, to no one man alone.

And so when Denmark came to be by his side, looking at him knowingly when he noticed the blush that Norway could not erase from his cheeks, he chose to maintain the icy formality that he'd dressed himself in as he'd left the room with the rumpled bed; hiding all the marks and scratches that betrayed the desire that still simmered beneath his skin under a thin veneer of casual disdain and apathy.

Naturally, Denmark was taking as well to being ignored as he ever had, and the whole awkward situation was made only more unbearable by the propriety that dictated that Norway was also seated next to Sweden and across from Finland and Russia. If only Iceland had ranked higher in the eyes of the butler or the housekeeper and been seated nearer, Norway would have had the privilege of holding awkward court over the whole of the tangled Nordic knot.

 _“The joys of state affairs,”_ Norway thought wryly as he observed Finland's uncomfortable shifting while Sweden's glared determinedly at Russia, who seemed as blissfully pleased with the world as ever. He tried to block out Denmark's growing agitation as he served as buffer once more between Denmark and Sweden. It seemed the even independence could not relieve him of that burden.

It was a deeply irritating revelation that grated against the low-burning feeling of pleasure and contentment that had carried him through the coronation and his subsequent...celebrations...having to now be sat between two hulking reminders of his past subservience, pinning him in with both elbows and memories.

Through the first courses, he had tried to maintain a balance of giving Denmark cold indifference in an attempt to cool his unnecessary fervor and giving Sweden the barest amount of attention that societal rules dictated he was due. On any other day, he would have tossed politeness to the wind and kept silent, but this was important for his King and his country, so this once he would forget the thousand years of history that wound them all together and play the part of dutiful diplomat.

For his part, Sweden had responded to his flat, disinterested inquiries with distracted mumbles, gaze rarely leaving the two men seated across from him. He could feel a headache building between his temples, brought on by the constant need to suppress eye rolls and scathing remarks as he sat wedged between Sweden's discomfited yearning and Denmark's badly disguised jealous frustration.

It seemed to Norway that even the slightest acknowledgment of Sweden's existence had an adverse affect on Denmark's tenuous grip on sanity, as he devoured each dish placed in front of him with increasing speed fervor, swallowing down food and wine as if he'd just come out of a long period of famine, all while glowering ominously at Sweden and shifting closer to Norway.

It was like Kalmar all over again, only with better food, more elegant manners, and four hundred more years of bitterness and recrimination.

“Ah...Denmark, you really do seem to be enjoying that herring,” Finland said nervously, smile wavering as he broke the palpable tension that had settled like a storm cloud over their small section of the expansive table.

Denmark smirked nastily as he finished a last bite, “Of course! You know I like having the best of Norway in my mouth.”

Finland flushed and Norway grit his teeth and tried to restrain the sudden urge to commit bloody murder in the middle of the dining room, angry and annoyed that Denmark would make such thinly veiled claims of familiarity.

It rankled in the deepest, most vulnerable parts of his mind that Denmark felt entitled to act as though nothing had changed since the days that Norway sat by his side in Margaret's court and poured his wine, openly acknowledged as Denmark's favorite.

He would correct that presumption, he would correct Denmark's errant belief that a few hours of unrestrained pleasure had set everything to right, that a few loose whispers in a quiet church had meant anything.

 _It was far too dangerous to feel so much so freely._

“Also good for getting a lot of protein, keep up my energy levels for all the _festivities_ ,” Denmark leered .*

Norway stilled as a hand came to rest on his knee, hidden from view under the long white table cloth, five points of heat pressing down lightly over the linen of his pants, firm and assured in their bold presumption.

Ignoring the sudden downward rush of desire, Norway schooled his face into impassivity and turned to Sweden to ask yet another question of no significance, knowing that for Denmark there could be no punishment as sweet as being ignored in favor of his rival.

The hand slid further up his thigh and he could smell the faint hint of wine on Denmark's breath as he continued to move his chair closer than propriety allowed, whispering lowly, “You did always like your little games, didn’t you?”

Norway refused to give-in, unwilling to cede any ground to Denmark's greedy, unthinking fingers, carrying on as if unaffected by the long fingers caressing up the inseam of his pants, coming dangerously close to his growing hardness. With each word he spoke to Sweden, or to Finland, with every bit of his attention that he gave to anyone who was not the Kingdom of Denmark, the fingers inched slowly closer in a teasing little march towards his cock while Norway tried to ignore the how avidly Denmark was gazing at him, face flush with liquor and possessive desire.

It was a look that made Norway want to bite at his lips and scratch at his skin until he remembered exactly who held all the cards in the game they were playing these days, even as he tried not to shift and squirm and seek relief in the palm of Denmark's wandering hand, refusing to fall victim to this cheap trick.

He would win this round, surrendering nothing without a fight.

Though the room was loud and busy, filled with cheery voices and the gentle clinking of silverware against plates, the tiny environ of the four Nordics and their Russian interloper was so silent that Norway wondered that they could not hear the sound of Denmark's hand rushing up and down his clothed leg, that the others remained seemingly ignorant of the pounding of his heart that threatened to deafen him.

His eyes fell shut and he swallowed an unwanted sigh when Denmark shifted forward and pressed down over his cock, cupping him through his pants and rubbing his thumb over the length. He could almost feel Denmark's satisfaction, could imagine the pleased smile of victory spreading across his face, the vision blurring with the memory of the softness of Denmark's eyes when he'd first kissed him in the cathedral.

 _He could not shake loose the thought of how Denmark had held the same hand that was now teasing at his zipper over his heart and smiled at him so softly, so seriously, as though it were a promise._

Abruptly, he pushed his chair back from the table, choking back shrill laughter when Denmark also fell forward, apparently unprepared to have his toy so suddenly disappear. Holding his evening coat in front of his waist, he made no apologies as he moved through the crowded dining room in search of a moment of solitude and silence.

Norway pushed forward into the first empty room he could find, a small antechamber lit only by the summer moon, bare of furniture and smelling of recently stored flowers. He sighed frustratedly, pulling at the constricting knot of his tie, cursing the weakness of his heart, always so at odds with his better sense, with the rationality he trusted to keep him safe.

He should have known, should have remembered from all those many years of watching Denmark pursue countless enemies across land and sea, that he was not to be left alone for along. And yet the wind was still knocked clear of his lungs when Denmark invaded his sanctuary, shoving him up against the wall, pinning his wrists above his head with a malicious smile that set his lust on edge, calling out to all his long buried base desires.

 _This, this...rage and jealousy...this he understood. This game he could play with his eyes closed, taking pleasure as his winnings and walking away without debt or obligation._

“What the fuck is your problem?” Denmark growled, squeezing his wrists and shoving a knee between his still struggling legs.

Norway let his body go slack, feigning disinterest as he read the emotions that were playing across Denmark's face: envious hurt confusion mixed with angry desire. The fool always was such an open book, just begging for Norway to rifle through his pages and dictate how the plot would follow.

“I can't imagine what you are talking about, idiot.” He answered coolly, eyes flicking towards the windows, denying Denmark his attention once more.

Denmark huffed noisily, pushing him further up the wall, “You know what the fuck I'm talking about. Being all hot and cold. Changing the rules on me just as soon as I think I’ve got a fucking handle on what it is you want. First you're coming down my throat in a church and laughing with me in bed and next you're running out on me to be buddy-buddy with that fucker who stole you from me...”

“I'm hardly buddy-buddy with Sweden, you great fool,” Norway spat scathingly, trying to resist the urge to roll his hips into the hard cock that was pressed against his stomach, “And it’s hardly your concern who I speak to in my own house.”

Denmark smiled darkly, the moonlight playing over the sharpness of his features as he leaned forward to rub his nose over Norway's cheek, “I don't like it...that's the point of all this isn't it? Reminding me of how much I don't like knowing that he had you for all those years. He doesn't deserve another second of your time or attention.”

Norway shifted his head to brush his lips over Denmark's, breathing out softly before he answered, voice gently cruel, “By that logic, I should be absolved of giving you any part of me for at least several hundred years. I'm relieved to be rid of you.”

Denmark nipped at his bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth and stealing a gasp from Norway's throat, before he murmured, “Saying things like that...anyone else would think you didn't want me, Norge.”

Norway stilled, breath catching at the tiny current of vulnerability hiding beneath Denmark's bravado, and he wondered at the changes their century apart had wrought in the man that had him crushed up against a wall, the violence in his arms belied by the softness in his voice. The cutting denial of his desire sat on the tip of his tongue, tasting of bitter revenge for all the centuries he had struggled to remember his identity, relegated to stand in the shadow of Denmark's ambition

But now, as he peered into Denmark's open and searching gaze, his blood rushing and his mind racing, he thought of the insane leap of joy he'd felt when Denmark had rounded the corner in the church and looked at him as though he were precious.

 _Trust Denmark to unthinkingly lay waste to all his carefully maintained boundaries and walls, barreling in with as little regard for his sanity and sense as ever._

It was all so overwhelming, to be thrust out of a century of solitude and struggle into independence and back into Denmark’s ready and waiting arms, that he felt adrift in a sea of apprehension and lust, torn between protectionism and pleasure.

And so he cast his eyes to ground and said nothing, letting Denmark’s question linger unanswered.

Denmark sighed and stepped back enough to let Norway slide down the wall, though he kept his hands resting on his hips as he said, “Jesus, Norge, it doesn't have to be this difficult. Not everything has to always be such a fight. Sometimes the answer really is that simple.”

Norway remained resolutely silent, letting his head fall back to thump against the wall, keeping his hands by his side, not trusting his fingers to keep the secret of his yearning, refusing to listen to Denmark’s idiotic assurances that there were no hidden motives in his actions, no entrapment in his words.

“Or maybe it would be easier for you if I didn’t give you a choice. If I just threw you over my shoulder and tied you  to the bed and fucked you,” Denmark said, voice unexpectedly shrewd and knowing, his words flooding Norway's mind with heated images of his body spread and begging to be touched.

He closed his eyes and fell forward into Denmark's grasp, even as his mouth protested, “Lies.”

Denmark chuckled lowly, wrapping his arms around Norway's back and nibbling on his ear, “God, you are such a pervert.”

Norway’s eyes flew back open, narrowing in suspicious confusion when Denmark started walking them both backwards towards the open windows, keeping one arm around his waist and using the other to lace their fingers together.

“But I’m not going to do that, much as I might want to throw you down and have my way with my wicked little beast, I’m not going to make it all nice and neat and not your fault by giving you exactly what you need but never want to ask for, just so you can run away again and pretend it didn’t matter because it was all just a part of some twisted little game. After what happened earlier today, I’m breaking the rules, Norge.”

Denmark murmured hotly against his cheek as he started moving them across the small room, Norway’s feet mirroring the patterned steps he had for so long known by heart, his body automatically falling into measured time with Denmark’s, his mind still tripping over Denmark’s bold declaration.

He scowled, trying to hide his spiking nerves even as Denmark continued to sway them both to and fro, tightening his grip on Denmark’s hand, demanding, “What the hell are you doing, idiot?”

Denmark laughed lightly, his breath tickling under Norway’s ear, “You’re the idiot if you don’t know what we’re doing.”

Annoyed, confused, and still achingly hard, Norway struggled a bit against Denmark’s hold, which only encouraged Denmark to pull him closer, so close that he could feel the surprisingly anxious fluttering of Denmark’s heart, beating wildly against his warm chest. Baffled as to how he had gone from pressed against a wall expecting the familiar scratch and burn of angry, careless sex, so blissfully free of complicated emotions, to this slow waltz around an abandoned store room, he tried to anchor himself by winding his free hand into Denmark's hair, tugging sharply as he hissed:

“I know what you’re doing. The question is why.”

“Why am I dancing with you instead of fucking you into the mattress? Why can’t we do both? What’s wrong with a little touch of softness every now and then? Even if it’s with an uncouth old Viking like me?” Denmark asked lightly, though Norway didn’t mistake the underlying seriousness in his tone, the curious edge in his words that matched the stiffness in his shoulders.

Norway let the room fall silent as they moved softly across the floor, refusing to answer the questions that still echoed in his mind, not knowing how to explain how much it frightened him to know that even now when he had the choice, when he could have anyone or no one at all, he still wanted to choose Denmark…and all that wanting to make such a choice entailed and implied…

 _It was so much to risk._

Norway’s unspoken reverie was broken when Denmark sighed playfully and charged on through the, though his laughter was strained when he said, “Besides, they’re playing your song. Seems a little wrong not to dance. Especially when we’re so good at it.”

“My song?” Norway asked absently, so distracted by cacophony of thoughts and feelings in his mind that he’d failed to take note of the melody that was drifting in through the windows. He closed his eyes and focused on the slightly muffled sounds of violins, his chest tightening when he realized what it was Denmark had recognized.

He gentled the grip in Denmark’s hair, unable to keep his fingers from stroking lightly against the back of his neck as he murmured, “The Holberg Suite. You would consider a piece written by a Norwegian to celebrate a Norwegian who was claimed by the Danes as my song.”

“I could consider it your song because it’s a fucking nice piece of music by a great Norwegian composer. But no....you always have to be difficult, don’t you?” Denmark asked affectionately while Norway rolled his eyes and shifted in his arms just enough to look balefully up at his face.

“In all the many centuries I’ve been forced to spend with you, have you ever known me to be easy?” Norway answered with biting sarcasm before he noticed Denmark’s wicked smirk, flushing slightly at the implication of his words.

“Oh, I can think of a few times,” Denmark cackled delightedly, dipping his head down to kiss the blush on each of Norway’s cheeks, holding his lips there as his laughter fell away and the only sound that remained were the floating notes of Grieg’s lovely gavotte trailing in from the banquet hall.

Norway closed his eyes to hide from the intensity of Denmark’s gaze, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of the heart beating against his chest and the movement of his feet as they continued their dance, trying to remember how long it had been since they had last danced like this, wondering at the ease with which they fell back into the old steps, moving in perfect sync.

When the music faded away, Norway opened his eyes to find Denmark still watching him, still waiting for something that Norway was not entirely sure he was ready to give.

He sighed and said so lowly his words were barely audible above the lingering applause echoing from the ballroom, “This is not easy.”

He pulled his hand from Denmark’s clinging grasp, gesturing towards the room where the King sat, before waving at the small space that separated their still intertwined bodies.

“I know,” Denmark said as he tucked a errant piece of hair behind Norway’s ear, “but it doesn’t really have to be that hard either.”

“No?” Norway asked dubiously, arching an eyebrow as he leaned into Denmark’s touch, wearied and worn by the constant flood of emotions brought on by the day’s many twists and turns, angry lust softening into confused longing.

“No,” Denmark said with a soft, quiet, confident smile that Norway could not help but press his lips to, leaning up on his toes to kiss him as the last vestiges of his control fell away; his resistance crumbling just enough to break the dam on those heady, reckless feelings of pride and happiness and joy that he’d wanted stored away, lest he find himself drowning.

 _And if he drowned, well, he was taking Denmark with him._

He broke the kiss and wrapped his fingers around Denmark’s wrist, turning to leave the room without a word, a ghost of a smile whispering across his face as he heard Denmark’s protesting grunt.

Norway tugged sharply on Denmark’s arm, casting a scathing glance over his shoulder when Denmark stumbled towards him.

“Wait, where are you going?” Denmark said with obvious confusion that gratified Norway deeply, confirming his need to believe that there was no game with Denmark that he could not play, that he could not win.

 _Even one where his heart was the collateral._

“What? I can hardly throw you over my shoulder,” he said flatly, though he knew that the twitching of his lips gave him away, “though I suppose I could tie you up....”

The flare of heat in Denmark’s eyes, the sudden quickening of the pulse beneath his fingers made him smirk with pleasure as he stepped into the circle of Denmark’s embrace, leaning forward to mouth along the firm line of his jaw until he reached the curve of his ear.

“But I think you’re going to need both of your hands free for what’s going to happen next.”

He could feel the spread of Denmark’s smile against his lips as he nipped at the corner of his mouth, wanting to be near to the happiness he had wrought, tossing caution and reservation aside...at least for one night.

“And what about the fucking into the mattress?” Denmark asked as he wrapped an arm around Norway’s waist, lifting him up off the ground to rest against his side, grinning unabashedly.

Wrapping one leg around Denmark’s middle and running his fingers over his lips, Norway dropped his voice low and deep, arching a regal eyebrow as he said, “We are entertaining petitions for favors from the plebeians.”

“Mmmm,” Denmark hummed, pressing kisses to each of the fingers Norway presented, “well, in that case, I have a request to make.”

Norway smiled, slow and dirty, as he slid back down Denmark’s body, holding out the hand that bore his royal ring, watching with heated pleasure as Denmark bent over to touch his lips to the crest.

“Your majesty,” Denmark murmured as he raised his eyes to meet Norway’s unyielding stare, holding his gaze as he breathed out, “My majesty.”

Norway closed his eyes and turned his hand so that Denmark’s chin rested in his palm, pulling him up for a harsh and needy kiss, whispering, _“yes, yes, yes.”_


	5. Chapter 5

He felt light headed, exhaustion waiting in the wings to overwhelm him the moment that he let go of of all the exhilaration and anxiety that had bore him up through the day, the moment that he released the wrist that was currently tethering him to waking lust and excitement.

He’d pulled Denmark from their clandestine little rendezvous and taken two steps towards the servant’s staircase that would carry them away unseen to a bedroom and a locked door before the feel of the night winds drifting down the hallway stirred in his soul something as equally old and familiar as the touch of Denmark’s skin against his own. He wondered that Denmark made no sound of protest, no demand to know why exactly they were spilling out of the Boat House onto the grounds instead of into the luxury of a mattress, casting a quick glace over his shoulder as he dragged him along over the grassy lawn towards the edge of the lake.

He could not help but shift the circle of his fingers clinging to Denmark’s wrist to join their hands together as he took in the easy contentment on Denmark’s face that told him he was just happy to be allowed to follow Norway this time, satisfied that there would be no more cause for playing cat and mouse tonight. He memorized the sound of Denmark’s pleased little inhale of surprise, tugging him harder towards their destination, driven by siren song of the water and the moonlight calling him near.

All day he had been inside the bricks and mortar of his society, in the churches and carriages and buildings of his people, contained within all the human trappings of ceremony and celebration. And now, now, it was time to wade into that which was ancient and indelible and gave him existence, to touch his toes to the waters that flowed in his veins and run his fingers through the silts and sands that were his flesh and bone. He dropped Denmark’s hand to strip the stifling evening coat from his shoulders, tossing it to the ground along with the tie, and his abandoned shoes and socks.

Without waiting for Denmark to do follow, trusting in the idiot’s seemingly tireless interest in being wherever he was, Norway waded slowly and silently into the chilled lake, standing barefoot in his tuxedo pants as the coldness of the water and the whisper of the wind woke up the oldest unyielding corners of his undying soul.

He snorted when Denmark yelped from behind him, whining under his breath about being “fucking freezing.”

“Pathetic,” He murmured quietly, though without bite, unsurprised when a pair of arms settled around his waist, a solid and welcome plane of heat pressed against his back, and strong chin burrowed into his shoulder.

“We can’t all be acclimated to the Arctic,” Denmark chuckled into his neck while his fingers toyed absently with the buttons of his shirt, “and this lake really is fucking cold.”

Norway ignored him, closing his eyes and remembering the sound of the sea, lingering on visions of silent, implacable fjords and mountains, digging his toes into the lake’s sucking sands, cherishing the knowledge that once again this was all his and his alone.

He felt the slide of Denmark’s lips on his throat, pushing up to whisper in his ear as his hands held him so tightly, so carelessly, “Beautiful, though. Worth the risk of hypothermia.”

The warmth of Denmark’s breath on his neck and the icy ripples of the water against his heels and the sound of the wind rustled grass and the thrumming of his own remembered strength...all of it rushed through him at once, stoking the smoldering embers of his desire to a sudden conflagration of thoughtless want.

Norway turned within Denmark’s hold only to be taken aback by the intensity of Denmark’s expression, heart tripping wildly and eyes widening as he suddenly knew what it was Denmark wanted to say, the words that were threatening to spill over the parting of his lips.

Suddenly desperate for the feel of Denmark’s hands on his skin, for the taste of his mouth, Norway brought their lips together, open and wet and demanding, licking away the confession that he wasn’t yet ready to hear, swallowing down his affection and holding it near his heart for the day he was prepared to say, _“And I, you.”_

Without breaking the kiss, he shuffled them backwards, water sliding over their feet as they moved in a breathless tango until Norway dropped to the damp and muddy earth of the bank, pulling Denmark down to rest on top of him.

He spread his legs and grabbed and pulled and kissed until Denmark was stretched out over his body, rocking his hips in time with Norway’s needy thrusts, murmuring hotly into his ear, _“I’ve got you, Norge, I’ve got you._

Denmark’s hands were running over the dips and curves of his body, muddying the pristine white of his formal wear as his lips and teeth made bold explorations of his neck, his throat, his cheeks, returning always to the panting welcome of his mouth. He pressed his hands into the cold, wet, earth, feeling it give beneath him before he dragged his fingers over the lines of Denmark’s jaw and across the long arch of his back, wanting to cover him in the colors of his nation.

Norway wrapped both of his arms around Denmark’s back, wanting to be pressed between the wet solidity of his land and the familiar warm weight of his lover, his indefatigable anchors. Past and present collided, long forgotten memories of violent conquering men tearing at each other gladly in the aftermath of war intermingling with the faint sounds of polite laughter and elegant music, as the rocked desperately together in the dirt, icy waters still brushing against their toes.

His body burned as it shivered and slid across the damp ground, his breath panting into Denmark’s greedy mouth as they kissed with blind, searching heat. He sighed and bit down on the bottom lip moving across his own as Denmark laughed hotly in his ear and moved his cold hand inside the tight confines of his pants, brushing the tips of his fingers over the cock that had been aching for attention since the first teasing touch under the dinner table. He pushed up, scrabbling to hold Denmark as close as possible, clinging to him as the cool touch of his hand moved slowly, softly over his desire, steadily and knowingly calling his lust to the surface, spreading it through his limbs, making his mind forget the thousand defiant doubts that still remained.

Denmark spoke of his dirty dreams and filthy fantasies, a non-stop stream of delicious perversion as he dragged his nails over the head of his dick, shifting his wrist just enough to press the skin of his palm against his length and push down. Norway wound his fingers though Denmark’s hair, wanting it disheveled and mussed and free of any signs the gentility that suited him so poorly, pulling his head roughly to the side to muffle his moaning mouth with abrasive kisses that would only mark him further as Norway’s.

As Denmark made profane promises of _“carrying him inside and stripping him down and spreading him out over his lap and watching him ride his cock until they were both so broken they’d never leave the bed again,”_ Norway moaned and bit and scratched, caking Denmark’s clothes in filth and dirt to match the tenor of his words.

Denmark pulled back enough to stare at him, eyes bled dark blue with lust, mouth reddened and parted, with wild hair and torn clothes, so familiar in all his untamed splendor, making Norway’s breath catch and his legs go taut, toes flexing in the cold wet earth, as he commanded:

“So fucking gorgeous...come for me... my gorgeous unbreakable Norge.”

And like the rushing of the tides, he broke over Denmark’s fingers, gasping into the mouth that was crushed against his, swallowing his sighs and holding him through the crest of his pleasure.

When the waves receded enough that he could breathe again, could take the cool night air into his lungs, he smirked against the salty warmth of Denmark’s neck, feeling the insistent push of Denmark’s hard cock against his hips, knowing that there were promises Denmark had to keep and petitions that he had to honor.

Stretching out lazily beneath the heavy drape of Denmark’s lanky form, he murmured, voice low and full of intent, “Denmark...”

“Hmm?” Denmark answered as he pulled his hand from Norway’s pants and lifted up to let Norway sit forward.

“If you insist on carrying me to bed, can you at least spare me the indignity of throwing me over your shoulder like some captured wench?” He asked even as his arms were already winding their way around Denmark’s neck, bracing for what he believed to be the inevitable.

The slow spread of Denmark’s smirk warned him that the fool was about to do something he was going to like even less than being carted about like a sack of potatoes but his limbs were too loose and his heart too light to truly protest when Denmark slung an arm under his knees and hauled them both up from the ground.

“Aww, Norge, that’s so cute! If you wanted me to carry you like a blushing bride all you had to do was say so!” Denmark laughed delightedly.

Norway smiled, dark and low, as Denmark strode barefoot across the lawn, keeping to the shadows so as to avoid the prying eyes of the gentlefolk, feeling his arousal pool hot and renewed in his chest.

“Mmm,” he hummed into his ear, flicking out his tongue to trace the curve of the shell, gratified by Denmark’s answering shiver, drawing out the quiet murmur until he knew Denmark was lulled into believing himself safe.

“But tell me, Danmark, when we cross the threshold, wouldn’t you rather I played the role of wicked whore?”

 

~~~~~

  
With the way Norway was plastered all wet and sticky and loose against him as he shoved through the bedroom door, Denmark didn’t really give a fuck what role Norway wanted to play as they finally took their game into the final round as long as he finally got that “later” he’d been chasing since the moment Norway stroked his hair and smiled softly after he’d come way too soon for either of their liking. Blushing bride or wicked whore, they both held their appeal, so long as Norway was naked and and he was naked, too, and they ended up in a tangled, sweaty knot of satisfaction bound together on the bed.

His legs ached and his arms threatened rebellion from the long walk carrying Norway across the lawn and up the winding narrow stairs, though none of it mattered, all the pain gone, replaced by the slick heat of Norway’s lips sliding sweetly against his own as he was unceremoniously relieved of his armful and shoved up against the smooth wood of the door and kissed into submission.

He opened his eyes to blink into the darkness when the delicious body that had been shamelessly rubbing against his suddenly disappeared, making his hands clutch ineffectively at the empty air...Norway always had been good at getting away when he was truly determined. Denmark shifted forward, intent on pursuing his not-so-blushing bride (or whore), only to stop when as he watched Norway move about the room, shedding a piece of clothing with each candle he lit, setting the room and his skin aglow with pale, naked, light.

Denmark stalked slowly across the room, following Norway’s delicate, graceful progress, eagerly taking in each white inch that was revealed to him, pausing when he crossed in front of the mirror, arrested by his wild and torn appearance. Turning to face his reflection, his eyes widened as he looked at a man he hadn’t seen in too many long years...dirty, roughed up, and burning with confidence.

He ran his fingers over the blossoming red marks on his neck and shoulders, the fleeting reminders of Norway’s claim, before grimacing as he noted the mud caked on his pants, on his shirt, knowing that there was no way he could take these home to Greenland without being on the receiving end of quite the resigned pout.

He watched his reflection as he traced the muddy streaks left by Norway’s fingers along his cheeks, pressing his hand over the print that had been left on the once white of his shirt, stilling when another hand joined his. In the mirror, Norway’s now bare body appeared, pristine but for the smudges that betrayed Denmark’s greedy touch along his hips and thighs, circling in front of him, hands and lips lingering over each finger and hand print stain.

Denmark smiled widely as at his happy and horny double, wondering if perhaps Norway took a little too much pleasure in these marks of possession. It was mesmerizing, to be able to see both the parting of Norway’s lips over the bruise on his neck and the too-tempting curve of his ass as he watched them sway together in the mirror.

“You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Denmark said, leaning down to meet Norway’s smug kiss, keeping his eyes open and focused on the sight of his hands drifting down to rest over his naked ass, delighted by the feel of Norway’s narrow fingers unbuttoning his ruined shirt.

Norway’s only answer was to break the kiss and move his hot little mouth down to Denmark’s chest, nipping and biting at his nipples, which was a perfectly adequate response so far as he was concerned, his heart racing and his cock growing even harder, ready and waiting for Norge’s next move.

The vision of Norway’s pale skin in the flickering of the candle light and the rough feel of his tongue moving down, down, down his chest, stripped away all the angry frustration that had plagued him since the last time he was left standing, wanting in this very room, looking in the same mirror, setting his heart at ease.

Denmark wished for a painter to capture the image of wanton, wicked, loveliness that was Norge on his knees before him, sucking at the tender skin of his inner thigh, breathing hot over his cock, while his fingers traced between his legs, brushing past his balls and making him curse in the Norse tongues of old.

“God, do you know what this makes me think about, Norge?” Denmark asked as he stroked the hair away from Norway’s face, wanting to watch the heat in his eyes and the slide of his cock into that pretty mouth for the first time in way too fucking long.

Norway gave him a dark look that implied he shouldn’t have been thinking at all, not when he was seconds and centimeters away from some of the finest cocksucking in the world.

But Denmark talked on, inhaling sharply as Norway shuffled them both slightly to one side, giving him a perfect view of Norway’s tongue tracing the tip of his dick.

“Fuck. I wanna take you to Rosenborg,” he said, cupping Norway’s jaw in his hand as Norway placed wet, open kisses along his cock and looked up at him with wide, lusting eyes, two fingers wrapping around him and stroking.

“ _God fucking damn,_ ” Denmark cheered in his heart and in his head while he struggled to keep spelling out his newest fantasy, hips rocking into to the undeniable pull of Norway’s hands and mouth.

“There’s this little room there, covered from ceiling to floor in mirrors*,” he broke off again, choking back a string of curses as Norway hummed around his cock and raked his nails across the soft skin of his thighs, gaze glittering with interest as he continued to hold Denmark’s heavy stare.

Denmark tightened his hold in Norway’s fine, dirt splattered hair, sensing the willingness in the curve of the smirk stretched around his dick and the welcoming taunt of _“yes, go ahead and do what you will, there is no part of you I don’t own”_ he was sure that he was reading in Norway’s expression.

He started moving his hips in time with the hand guiding Norway’s head, his thumb stroking gently down the side of his face, and between broken breaths and moans, Denmark said, “I want to see you there, just like this, on your knees....with me surrounded with so many reflections of you sucking me off, a whole room full of me and you...”

Denmark’s eyes closed when Norway swallowed him deep, robbing himself of the sight of Norway’s fingers drifting between his legs, as he struggled to keep from coming, wanting to be allowed once again into the tight heat of Norway’s body.

“Fuck, fuck, stop...Come here!”Denmark begged breathlessly as he yanked Norway up from the ground, pressing his lips to the knowing smirk that graced Norway’s red and swollen mouth, dragging his slick cock against Norway’s hip.

“So greedy, Danmark,” Norway murmured as Denmark shuffled them away from the temptation of the mirror, “asking that I entertain more than one request on an evening when you’ve barely completed the first.”

Denmark smiled and wrapped an arm around Norway’s waist before tossing him backwards onto the still mussed bed, immediately sliding between the oh-so-sweet parting of Norway’s legs as he said, “Don’t worry, my liege, I’ll see to your needs.”

Norway twisted his fingers around his nipple as he slid down the bed to cradle Denmark between his thighs, licking his lips and commanding, “See that you do or we will be most displeased.”

He watched as Norway’s cheeks flushed and his breath stuttered as he pushed two fingers into his body, memorizing the sight of the rise and fall of his chest with the movement of his touch and the sound of his sighs as he leaned forward to kiss the sweat from Norway’s brow.

He welcomed Norway’s searching, searing kiss, so deep and dirty that it caught him off-guard when Norway surged up and laid him flat on his back, looking up at his love’s wicked expression as two legs settled across his thighs, making him groan with the hot, slick, slide of another cock against his own.

“You’re terrible at follow through,” Norway mocked, though Denmark couldn’t be bothered to care as Norway took him in hand, holding him steady as he sank down onto his cock, exhaling long and dirty and low while his eyes fell shut.

Denmark spat a million strangled curses as his hands clenched at the sheets, trying not to come  as Norway started rolling his hips in dangerous little circles that were far too knowing to be anything in the repertoire of blushing bride.

“Did you not say you wanted me to ride you until we were both so broken we’d never leave the bed?” Norway asked in a honey rich voice that cut through his lust like a knife.

Releasing his hold on the sheet to grip Norway’s hips, Denmark opened his eyes slowly, pushing his hips up to meet Norway’s excruciating rocking roll, admiring the sight of Norway straddled across his lap, moving up and down on his cock with hands splayed out over Denmark’s chest, pink cheeks, tiny drops of sweat beading down his neck and mouth parted in a constant, silent, _“Oh!”._

Denmark used his hands to lift Norway up so so they were almost parted before pushing him back down to meet the sharp thrust of his hips, relishing the sudden gasping moan and the fluttering of his eyelids as he slapped a hand down on his thigh.

“Damn, but you do look regal on your throne, Norge,” Denmark murmured dirtily as Norway upped the pace, nails scratching red, angry lines down his chest.

Norway groaned and tightened his thighs, making Denmark pant and curse as he felt the downward spiral of his desire coiling around his cock. He reached out a shaking hand to stroke Norway, hard once again, wanting them both to be in this moment of abandon together.

He forced himself to open his eyes when Norway leaned forward to kiss him messily, with none of his usual finesse, his voice soft and sweet as he whispered in Denmark’s ear, “Of all the idiots in the world I could have, I can’t believe I still choose you.”

Wild with love and lust, almost unable to believe the words that had just passed through the fog of desire in his mind, Denmark scrambled to sit up, wanting to be close enough to watch Norway’s face as he came undone, wanting to be pressed so close together that there was no part of Norway he could not feel, inside or out.

Everything between them had changed, or so it seemed to him, as he remembered the softness of Norway’s hand in his as they walked to the lake’s edge, the desperate neediness of their embrace on the wet ground...the private warmth of a first kiss in a silent church.

“I love you,” Denmark sighed into Norway’s ear, so quietly that he wondered if he’d even had the courage to say it, letting himself fall into oblivion as Norway’s body tightened around him, bring him to a sharp, resounding climax that spilled over the edges of his mind, overtaking every thought and feeling but that of the clinging, hot, press of Norway’s skin and the gentle brush of Norway’s lips over his.

  
“Fuck, fuck, so good,” Denmark chanted as he thrust into Norway, relishing in the weight of legs thrown over his shoulders as he folded Norway in half.

“God, shut-up, do you ever shut-up?” Norway moaned and pulled at Denmark’s hair, forcing Denmark to forgo his answer by shoving his tongue in his mouth.

Denmark snapped his hips and twisted his wrist in retaliation, unsurprised but deeply gratified when Norway bit his bottom lip and came hot and hard over his hand, carrying them both to climax.

Satiated and still a little hung-over, Denmark let himself fall heavily over Norway’s still heaving chest, peppering his warm skin with tiny kisses of appreciation and affection. He was going to have to give Sweden more credit for the wonders that reminiscing could bring to bear...this unexpected but most wanted, always wanted, reenactment of the 1906 entry on his Top Ten being one of them.

He smiled into Norway’s shoulder at the feel of lazy fingers stroking through his sweaty hair, treasuring the small, unspoken, tokens of Norway’s affection that had carried him through the many days of doubt and nights of separation.

Denmark remembered how nervous he had been that afternoon in Nidaros, holding his hopes out for Norway’s often unforgiving eyes, how startled he’d been to uncover the secret well of feeling that Norway held for him, deep and still and all too rarely revealed.

Breathing once again under control, he propped up on one elbow to peer down at Norway’s relaxed, soft, face, tracing one finger along the fan of his eyelashes and across the curve of his nose then down to rest over his lips. Denmark felt his heart skip when Norway’s eyes opened just enough to show him a hint of blue, alight with some unnamed emotion that looked terribly similar to that which he had last seen in a church alcove more than one hundred years ago.

Denmark sighed happily when Norway’s lips pressed a fleeting kiss to his finger, as entranced and aroused by the man splayed beneath him now as ever before, wanting to tell Norway how fucking glad he was that he was still the one he picked, out of all the countless other idiots in the world.

He readied himself for the silence that inevitably followed one of his reckless declarations, telling himself that the softening in Norway’s eyes, the gentling of his touch gave away all the feelings he wanted to assume Norge hid from him, having to believe that his love was returned.

 _Besides,_ he thought cheerily, _what was a retelling of a great fucking story without the happy ending?_

“Hey, Norge,” was all Denmark could get out before Norway was kissing him again, slow and deep and sweet, all lips and fleeting touches of his tongue.

There was none of the usual disappointment at being so obviously silenced as Denmark’s breath caught at the remembered feeling of a kiss just like this, honest and bare in its passion and devotion, free of bitterness and secrets in its tenderness that felt like a promise.

He stilled entirely, wishing that his heartbeat weren’t so deafeningly loud, threatening what was to be his crowning moment as Norway whispered the impossible, the untold, the so long unspoken against his lips.

 _“And I, you. Idiot.”_

  
 ****


End file.
